


Thinnamon

by Onyxim



Category: DCU (Animated), Justice League & Justice League Unlimited (Cartoons)
Genre: Allergies, And Bruce is just slowly dying, Cinnamon Allergy, Clark is panicking, Dick tells him to pull it together, EpiPens, Father-Son Bonding¿?, Humor, Hyperventilating Clark, M/M, Romance, allergic reactions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-25 16:15:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6202264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onyxim/pseuds/Onyxim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clark had no idea he was allergic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thinnamon

"What are you doing?" Bruce asked as he walked into the kitchen only to be overwhelmed with the (slightly comforting) smell of baked goods.

"Making cookies," Clark replied happily. He poured some milk into two cups. "Ma finally trusts me with her recipe."

"And that's an achievement of some sort?" Bruce peered over one of Clark's broad shoulders at the tray of cookies sitting on the stove.

Though he wasn't one to consume sugar often, due to his strict diet, Bruce loved sugar. And Clark knew it, too. He'd probably noticed how stressed Bruce had been lately, what with his job at Wayne Enterprises and the fact that Joker had managed to escape Arkham for the fifth time that month.

Bruce smiled. _Sneaky bastard_.

He leaned forward and pressed a couple of kisses to Clark's neck. "Mm, thank you." He wrapped his hands around his waist.

Clark shivered and turned his head halfway to throw him a saucy smile. "You can reward me later. For now, cookies." He plucked a cookie off of the tray and held it up. "Here. Try one."

Bruce accepted the treat as Clark held it to his lips, and he took a bite. It was just barely all the way cooked, leaving it soft and the dough melted in his mouth. The sugary explosion of chocolate and peanut butter on his tongue made him smile. He took the cookie and munched on the rest happily.

Clark laughed. "I take that it's good, then?" he asked, an underlying tone of pride in his voice.

"It's _delicious",_ Bruce moaned and Clark grinned. 

"I made a whole tray, and there's one more in the oven for the kids. We can share the first tray." 

"Sounds good to me," Bruce said, greedily reaching for another cookie. He kissed Clark on the cheek. "I might not leave enough for you," he teased.

Clark laughed again, a sound that went straight to Bruce's heart. 

"I wouldn't doubt it."

* * *

 

About five cookies in and a glass of milk later, Bruce was contentedly sitting at the table and working on his laptop when he noticed an uncomfortable itching sensation in the palms of his hands. Frowning, he scratched at them, but the feeling only flared up even more, making him wince. He glanced down at his hands. 

Both were an angry red and had broken out into hives. 

"What th' hell," Bruce mumbled, but his tongue was thick in his mouth. In fact, he couldn't talk or swallow very well at all. Panicking, because the ability to breathe was becoming less and less achievable, he stood up abruptly and staggered into the kitchen, eyes watering. 

"Clark," he called, and the man was still standing at the stove.

"Yes?" 

". . .you didn't so happen to put _cinnamon_ in those cookies, would you?" 

_Cinnamon_ came out sounding like _thinnamon_. He winced. 

Clark didn't seem to notice. "Yes, I did. Cinnamon, peanut butter, chocolate. . ." He stopped counting off his fingers. "Wait, _why?"_ He turned to look at Bruce and gasped quite loudly. 

Bruce groaned, one hand going to his neck, which felt swollen as well as his hands and itched unbearably, and the other went to his middle, where his stomach cramped violently. He had begun wheezing and tears poured down his cheeks involuntarily. Wave after wave of nausea pounded into him as he gripped the doorframe for balance, suddenly feeling lightheaded.

In a flash, Clark was there and holding him up, watching helplessly as Bruce struggled to breathe. 

"Thi'ammon. . ." Bruce mumbled. "I'm allergith to thi'ammon. . ." 

"What. . .what do I do?!" Clark asked Bruce.

Bruce opened and closed his mouth, seemingly not able to speak anymore. His eyes were very nearly swollen shut. 

"Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God," Clark chanted under his breath, cradling Bruce in his arms as he stood up. "A-Alfred! Alfred!" 

Instead if the butler, Dick came skidding into the room at Clark's frantic cries. "He went out with Tim to go to the store-- _woah!"_ His explanation broke off into a surprised exclamation when he took in the sight of his father, who was still struggling to speak and breathe. "Woah, what happened?!" 

"I-I think he's allergic to cinnamon!" Clark was borderline hyperventilating. He'd never felt more helpless in his life.

"Eeeehhhh. . . _eeehhh. . ."_ Bruce croaked weakly. 

"Oh, God, now he's going to _die",_ Clark wailed in despair. "And it's all my fault, oh my God, what the hell do I do, Dick, what do I do--?!" 

Dick reached over and slapped him. Hard enough for his head to snap abruptly to the right. "For the love of God, man, get it together!" 

Clark silenced himself. 

Dick took a deep breath. "How did you not know he was allergic?!" 

"It never came up!" Clark defended feebly. "It's not something that just _pops up randomly in conversation!_ It wasn't like he said, 'Oh, hey, my name is Bruce Wayne, and I am severely allergic to cinnamon! You'll probably need that information for future reference!'" His voice went down an octave to imitate Bruce's. 

Dick facepalmed and groaned. 

"Ehhhh. . .ep. . ." Bruce managed quietly, barely audible. Both Clark and Dick leaned closer to hear what he was saying.

"What's that, Bruce?" asked Dick. 

"Epi. . . _EpiPen_. . ." he gasped out, grabbing weakly onto Clark. 

Clark looked up at Dick in alarm. "He has an EpiPen!" 

Dick took Bruce into his own arms, sliding down to the floor with him and feeling around his neck, frowning. "You go and try to find it. But you may want to hurry. I think his airways are closing." 

Clark felt faint, but nonetheless staggered out of the kitchen in search for Bruce's EpiPen. . .which he had no idea where he'd keep it.

He tried their bathroom first. Flew up the stairs as fast as he could without causing a mess. He frantically searched the cabinets above the sink, the cabinet under the sink, then he zoomed into their bedroom, searched under the bed, Bruce's nightstand, and his sock drawer (he hid a lot of things in there). 

No luck! 

Cursing many times under his breath and grabbing his hair, Clark tried to think. 

_ Come on, come on, come on! Where would Bruce keep something he doesn't want anyone to find. . .probably out of embarrassment? _

He quickly flew down to the Batcave. 

This would take longer. The amount of places Bruce could have hidden an EpiPen are endless. He decided to scan the entire area for it with his x-ray vision.

_The infirmary? No. . .the Batmobile? No. . .the training area? Nope_. His eyes skated across a small drawer hidden next to the Batcomputer. _Bingo._

He was there in half a second and already rummaging through the drawer. It was full of miscellaneous objects; spare Batarangs, a stick of glue, a tube of toothpaste, a notepad and pen, lubricant (Clark blushed at that). . .ah-ha! A yellow EpiPen. 

He quickly took it up in his hands and made it back up to Dick and Bruce in less than two seconds. "Found it!" he exclaimed breathlessly, not out of exertion but because he was still close to hyperventilating. 

Dick took it from him and stabbed it into Bruce's thigh, making Bruce grunt and twitch a bit. 

Clark x-rayed him. The substance from the EpiPen flowed through his system quickly, immediately eliminating the irritants in his body. The swelling began going down slowly. 

Bruce's airways must have cleared about thirty seconds later, because he sat up away from Dick's lap and breathed deeply and gratefully. "Goddamn, Clark." His hand--noticeably less red than before--went to his neck and rubbed.

"I'm so sorry," he returned sincerely. "I had _no_ idea, I should have asked, I'm so sorry--" 

"Stop apologizing," Bruce interrupted. "You had no way of knowing. I should have told you."

"You should probably keep your EpiPen in an accessible place," Dick admonished warily. The look he gave Bruce was similar to the scold he would receive from Alfred. "You worried me." 

Bruce looked a bit sheepish. "Sorry." Dick's eyebrows climbed a bit in surprise. "Y'know, as long as you're apologizing, maybe I won't tell Alfred," he teased, "though he would probably _love_ to know."

Bruce's face took on a horrified look.

At that, the trio heard the front door open, and Tim's fast-paced footsteps down the hall. He appeared in the kitchen doorway, holding a plastic bag. "Why haven't you three answered your phones?" He asked, a bit irritated, completely ignoring the scene (Dick and Clark huddled around Bruce in the floor) in front of him. "I was trying to ask what kind of cereal you wanted. Since no one answered. . ." He fished out a box of cereal. "We just got Cinnamon Toast Crunch." 

Clark groaned and Bruce laughed.

**Author's Note:**

> I actually had a major allergic reaction yesterday to shrimp. I was taken to the hospital, though, and the pain in my abdomen and all the swelling and itching was much more unbearable. I passed out in the hospital hallway. 
> 
> I have to carry an EpiPen with me now. ._.


End file.
